


Dress Sexy for my Funeral

by laisserais



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gaslighting, Light BDSM, M/M, Power Exchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laisserais/pseuds/laisserais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is pretty sure he should murder Peter. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dress Sexy for my Funeral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheCharmingSeal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCharmingSeal/gifts).



> Steter Secret Santa 2015. Sorry this is so late! ...And not totally finished. I suck. But I wanted to at least give you a little taste? And there'll be more! So much more. Very very soon.
> 
> Please note: this is trash. Don't expect cuddling and snuggling.

* * *

Shoulders already losing the tension they'd gained as he had hunched over his chem final, Stiles sighs in anticipated bliss, unlocking the door and unbuttoning his coat at the same time. He's going to take a shower, order a pizza, and jack off to the kinkiest porn he can find; probably in that order. He deserves it; he just survived his very first semester at college.

One foot through the door, he drops all his stuff on the floor and grabs the wall. “Holy shit!”

Peter Hale is lounging on his bed. Legs crossed at the ankles, arms behind his head. He’s smirking.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shock bleeding into annoyance, Stiles marches over and slaps Peter’s feet--he’s wearing shoes!--off his bed. “How did you even-- Nevermind. Did somebody die?”

“Hello, Stiles. It’s lovely to see you, too.” 

Looming, Stiles puts his hands on his hips. Peter sits up, makes no move to get off _Stiles’s bed._ Gross. “Seriously. Why are you here?”

“I can’t just come down to celebrate the end of your first semester?”

“No.”

“Fine,” Peter stands up and the smile falls off his face. “Scott sent me.”

Heart leaping, Stiles asks, “What happened? Did somebody actually die?” 

“Everything is fine, but we have to go. Now.”

Oh Jesus, Stiles is going to hyperventilate. “Are you fucking with me? Peter,” Stiles grabs his arm. Peter looks at him askance. “What’s going on? Is my dad ok? Scott?”

“They’re both fine, but they’re a little busy. Scott asked me to escort you back. Come on.” he twists his arm out of Stiles’s grasp, squeezes his shoulder and lets go. “Do you need any help packing?”

“No, I did it last night,” He points at the duffel bag next to the door. 

Nodding, Peter picks it up and opens the door. “All right, let’s go.”

“Wait, wait.” The adrenaline is draining out of him and Stiles realizes a couple of things. “Why would Scott send you of all people? Why wouldn’t he just call? And aren’t you supposed to be in the looney bin?”

Peter looks at the ceiling like it’ll grant him patience. He’s holding the door open with his hip. “Believe it or not, I can actually learn, Stiles. Scott foiled my evil schemes one too many times for me to question his ways. He is our mighty alpha, and I bow to his command.”

Stiles snorts.

“And yes,” he continues. “Until recently, I did reside in a facility dedicated to the care of the mentally disturbed. But I got better.”

“You _got better_.” Stiles uses air quotes. “Just like that? And they, what, just let you out?”

“That is generally what happens when one has demonstrated compos mentis, yes. Now can we go, please? I’m double parked.” Peter starts backing out into the hallway. Stiles doesn’t have much choice, Peter’s got his stuff. He follows.

*

Once they’re on the freeway, headed to Beacon Hills, Stiles relaxes. Whatever weird shit is going down, he’ll figure it out soon. He might be hurt that Scott didn’t call him personally, but really, he gets it. After what happened over Thanksgiving, it’s not exactly like Stiles has been dying to Skype with him every night or anything. There’s been a definite pause in their communication. To be honest, he’s still a little pissed off, too. Not that’s it’s really Scott’s fault. And there it is: that old familiar guilt creeping into his gut. Stiles hasn’t missed it. 

Nope, he’s not dealing with this right now. He leans over and flips on the radio. Peter’s got satellite, something like nine hundred channels. He pushes the ‘seek’ button over and over until Peter slaps his hand away. It lands on a country station. Stiles groans. “I miss my jeep.”

“That’s what you get for not taking care of your things,”Peter says, smug bastard. 

“What, like it’s my fault she got totaled?” Stiles straightens out of his slouch against the door. “If only I’d shelled out for that extra ‘damage caused by supernatural entity or event’ package in my insurance, huh. But I guess hindsight’s twenty-twenty.” His eyes slide down from the bird’s eye maple dashboard to the leather covered steering wheel, and on over Peter’s own v-neck wearing self. God he’s such a jerk. “Or I guess I could have inherited millions of dollars in insurance money from my dead family, hidden it in a vault underneath the high school instead of in a bank, lost it to a crazy woman, found it again, and then buried it the woods. I guess then I could have afforded a Lexus for every day of the week. You’re right, that was shitty planning on my part.”

“Stiles, you say such hurtful things.”

Stiles taps his foot in time with the song on the radio. Something about losing your wife, your dog and your pickup truck all at the same time. Stiles can relate. Well, if his wife and his dog were actually a hybrid of his best friend and a wolf, and the pickup was his jeep. But still: the point stands. 

“Stop fidgeting.” Peter’s going a cool 100 miles an hour, at least. He changes lanes without signaling. Why is he even surprised.

“I’m not. Hey, why don’t you slow down so we don’t, you know, die.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “You don’t trust my superior reflexes?”

“Pfft, I trust that you have no idea what it’s like to have squishy, delicate organs that aren’t indestructible.”

“You know, if you died, I’d resurrect you.”

“...That’s. Hm. Comforting isn’t the word.”

“You should be honored. You’re one of only three, maybe four people whose lack of existence would bother me.”

Stiles tries to hold it in, he really does. He bites his tongue, drums his fingers against his knee, counts the cars they pass, but he can’t. He has to know. “Ok, no. First: why do you even have a creepy list like that? Second, who else is on it, and third: why am I on it?”

Peter laughs. He crosses four lanes of traffic and takes an exit. “Feel like McDonald’s? They serve breakfast all day now.”

Stiles feels like he wants an answer to his question, but also he is actually starving. He hasn’t eaten yet at all, unless you count the giant latte he got before his final. “Yeah, ok. But you’re buying.”


End file.
